chicken soup for the Robin soul
by AGENT Kuma-chan
Summary: A white ceiling, check. Chicken soup, check. Awkward bedside manners, check. The only logical conclusion was that Tim was sick again. Or a study of Tim and the various people who've taken care of him.


**Title: **chicken soup for the Robin soul

**Prompt:** Tim is sick and Bruce is taking care of him. Also, Dick taking care of Tim.

**Characters/Pairings:** Tim Drake, Jack Drake, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Alfred Pennyworth

**A/N:** So I combined your 1st and 2nd prompt, mainly because I couldn't resist including Dick. I'm not really sure on your feelings on Cass and Steph, so while I minimized their screen time in this fic. I really wanted to throw in Connor so I'd at least have the boyfriend in it, but he didn't work well with the flow of this story (T_T), so maybe when I have more time I'll tackle the Teen Titans prompt. 😊

**Summary:** _A white ceiling, check. Chicken soup, check. Awkward bedside manners, check. The only logical conclusion was that Tim was sick again. _

_Or a study of Tim and the various people who've taken care of him._

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…

…

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i.

"I'm fine," Tim croaked, struggling to sit up on his bed. His hands burned as he fumbled with the blankets, the cool cotton doing little to lower his temperature.

"Just lie down," his father sighed, hobbling over with a preciously balanced tray of food. The chicken soup sloshed slightly as he walked; despite his physiotherapy, he still had a bit of limp. Setting it down slowly on the side table, he crossed his arms, bemused. "Don't know where you get this stubbornness from."

"You," Tim chuckled, but the laugh caught in his chest and he started to cough. Hunching over, his shoulders shook as he wheezed. It felt like that time he broke his ribs. Maybe he had broken his ribs and this wasn't the flu. He could get Bruce and Alfred to check on it and—god, he was sick, wasn't he?

"Alright wise-guy, good to see you've recovered enough to make jokes again." Jack stacked up the pillows behind Tim, before slowly easing him into an upright position. Pressing his fingers against Tim's neck, he winced. "But you're still burning up. After soup, back to bed for you."

His shoulders slumped as he nodded, giving in. There was no way Tim could patrol tonight, even if he wasn't sick—his father would check up on him too much. Plus he'd be a complete liability to Batman. And after all it took to convince him to even let him wear the costume, he didn't want to risk losing it. Picking up a spoon, he glanced as his dad suspiciously. "Did you make this?"

"Don't worry, it was Dana." Jack ruffled his hair, a wry smile on his face. "Can't make you even more sick." He paused. "You're…fine with that?"

"With Dana?" Tim smiled, taking a small spoonful of the soup. If he had any doubts about his father's new girlfriend, they were gone instantly. He moaned slightly, licking his lips. "Oh yes, she can stay. She's a much better cook than you."

His father ruffled his hair more aggressively this time. "Alright, that's enough out of you." Pointing at the pills in the tray, Jack added, "When I'm back, those better be gone." 

"Yessir." He barely managed to salute, his fingers tapping his burning forehead, before he dropped his too heavy arm to his side. The door closed with a soft click and Tim leaned to his side table, staring at the yellow broth and the two white tablets next to it. His stomach growled and he took another sip of the soup.

Yeah, he could definitely get used to this.

There was a soft click and Tim dropped the spoon. A burglar? The window behind him silently slid open, well-oiled after all of his sneaking out, and there was an almost silent thud as someone entered his room. Tim took a deep breath, ready to yell for help.

"Tim."

At that gravelly voice, Tim relaxed and slumped back into the pillows. Turning over, he stared as Batman stood in a corner, his huge frame awkward in a teenager's room. There was nothing about this that worked, whether it was his posters or his models or even his row of books—all of it screamed just how out-of-place Batman was.

"You scared me." He tried not to laugh, it hurt too much, but judging by the slight rise of Batman's lips, he hadn't hidden anything.

"Just wanted to check how you are." Batman quietly stepped forward, next to his bed. "You look terrible."

"You should see the other guy," Tim quipped, closing his eyes. The absolute darkness felt good and soothing, somehow.

He could hear Batman retreat, returning to the window. "Don't come back for a week."

At that, Tim's eyes flew open. "I'll be fine by tom—"

"Tim." Batman slid open the window and looked over his shoulder. "Take your time. Robin can wait a couple of days." And with that, he vanished into the darkness.

Tim blinked. That meant he could still be Robin, right?

ii.

The ceiling was the same. Sprawled out on one of the Wayne Manor's beds, Tim stared blankly at the ceiling, at the white bumps that formed countless patterns. Identical patterns to the one in his old bedroom and it was funny that in this mansion surrounded by wealth, something had stayed constant with his old, crappy apartment.

No, that wasn't right. The apartment wasn't his anymore. This was his home now, though no matter how many times Tim repeated it, it didn't sound real.

There was a knock on the door and he turned just as Bruce poked his head in. "You awake?"

"Hard not to be," Tim rasped. Every breath racked his body and for once he couldn't argue against the 'sick' verdict. He didn't even need to ask to know that Steph and Cass were taking over his patrol. They'd both stopped by earlier, squeezing his hand sympathetically before disappearing into the night. If anything, he was surprised to find Bruce still here. Batman didn't come home until the sun was up and sometimes not even then. "What about patrol?"

Bruce chuckled, his voice low and deep but not at the depths of his alter ego. It was hard to believe they were the same person sometimes. To believe that either of them were the 'real' Bruce or that both of them were or that maybe there was a third Bruce he'd find someday. "I got that covered."

In his hands was a tray, a large bowl of soup taking up the majority of the space. Tim stared, and for a moment, he could see his father hobbling up a narrow corridor, hear a cane as it rapped on the wooden floor. A heavy hand on his forehead, a gruff _Son, you overdid it at football practice._

(and the lies, the lies that piled on like snow, did they ever have an honest conversation?)

"Don't worry, Alfred made this," Bruce sighed, setting down the tray. "So you don't have to stare so much."

"No, that's…that's not it." Even this conversation was an echo and Tim looked away. Maybe his fever was getting to him. "Alfred did?"

"Yes." Bruce glanced at him and it was hard not to believe he didn't figure it out right then and there. "You feeling better?"

"A little," he lied, pushing himself up to examine the tray. It was far neater than anything Jack and Dana had ever made. The pills were on a small plate.

A warm, heavy hand was on his forehead and this wasn't a memory, this was reality. Tim closed his eyes as Bruce pulled away. "Your fever is down, at least."

"Yeah." Tim swallowed. He felt slightly nauseous and he wasn't sure if it was his illness or just the situation.

"You can sleep after you eat." Bruce helped ease him up, pushing another pillow behind him so he could recline comfortably. "Alfred'll have my head if I come back with a full bowl."

Tim smiled, despite himself. "He wouldn't. He's just acting."

"No, that's his real trick. It makes it hard to tell when he's '_being silly'_ and when he's serious." Bruce's voice dropped into a low whisper. "I know he's serious."

"Then I'll take the soup." Tim sat up a little straighter. "Robin has to protect Batman, after all."

"Yeah." Bruce squeezed his shoulder. "But make sure to take care of yourself first."

iii.

"How you feeling, kiddo?" The bed sank slightly as Dick sat down, his hand already checking Tim's forehead. His fingers brushed aside Tim's sweaty bangs. "Oof. Fever."

Tim stared blearily at the ceiling. He was way too used to this sight, to this feeling. "Terrible," he croaked, sounding like a frog was stuck in his throat. Maybe it was. In this world, full of aliens and magic, it was entirely possible he was just cursed.

"You sound it too." Dick wrapped an arm around him, pulling Tim up just enough to stack the pillows behind him. Easing him back into a seated position, Dick sighed. "You pushed yourself too hard."

Tim gave him a flat stare.

"Hey, I'm telling the truth. Don't look at me like that." Sitting back, Dick crossed his arms. "I should have known you were sick the second you started calling yourself 'Red Robin'. And you make fun of my disco phase."

"Because that was a stupid costume and you know it," Tim chuckled. His chest ached with every vibration and he winced. "Even Babs said so."

Looking a little miffed, Dick pursed his lips. His eyes narrowed. "Krory and Gar didn't think so." When Tim only gave him a sad stare, Dick huffed and picked up the glass of water. "Take your meds—your fever's making you delusional."

There was a loud bang outside and Tim almost dropped the glass. As silence wrapped around them like a familiar blanket, he turned to Dick, eyebrow raised. "What was that?"

"Well, I couldn't leave the gremlin unsupervised. Since he's been trying to kill you and everything." Another loud bang and he rubbed the back of his head. "Cass said she'd take care of it."

"Training?" Tim mumbled, flinching at a particularly loud crack.

"Yeah. I should have expected that." Dick's shoulders slumped and he pressed a hand to his face, massaging his forehead. "I don't know if it's worse if they're fighting or actually training. Kid's already dangerous enough as is, if Cass starts teaching him…" He trailed off ominously and Tim felt a shiver that had nothing to do with his illness.

Staring at the pills in his hand, Tim quickly downed them. This whole scenario felt familiar: the chicken noodle soup, the pills, the awkward bedside conversation. Life was just a series of circles. Deaths. Rebirths. Deaths again. Closing his eyes, he murmured, "I'm tired."

"You can eat later," Dick suggested, reaching forward to adjust the pillow stack.

Tim laid a hand on his wrist, stopping him. "Not that—I'm just…of death. I'm tired of it." His fingers dug in slightly. "Dad. Dana. Steph. Connor. Bart. And now…" Bruce. He couldn't say the words, couldn't make them real. If he said it, he'd cry. There was no changing that fact. He'd breakdown and he couldn't do that. "I don't want to lose anyone else." His voice cracked.

Dick gently pried off his hand before pulling Tim up for a proper hug. His arms wrapped around Tim tight. "I know."

"Does it—?" Tim asked, burying his face in Dick's chest. He couldn't remember the last time he hugged someone. The last time he was hugged. Maybe it was before the crisis, before Bruce's disappearance. Or even earlier.

"It doesn't get easier," Dick stated softly. "You just…you just learn to handle it better. But it'll always hurt."

"Oh." Was that good or bad? Tim closed his eyes. "Bruce, he's alive. I know he is."

Dick didn't say anything, just hugged him tighter.

iv.

"Are you sure you want to handle this?" Alfred asked, carefully placing the tray in Tim's hands. Despite his age, he moved spryly around the kitchen, adding napkins and utensils and a small vase with a single rose to Tim's cargo. "You could fall ill."

"Knowing my luck, I already am." Tim smiled crookedly, adjusting the tray slightly. "Besides, a sick Bruce? I can't miss this."

"Do not tease him too much," Alfred warned wryly. "And do be careful, Master Timothy. I have my hands full with Master Damian as is, I do not need another patient."

"Maybe I should visit him too." Chuckling darkly as he climbed the stairs, Tim spared a glance at Damian's room. Maybe he could get Dick and Stephanie to come. They'd definitely get a laugh out of this.

Coming to a halt in front of the master bedroom, Tim took a deep breath. The room was occupied now. Connor was back. Bart was back. Steph was back. And Bruce had never left, not really. For once, things were looking good. Smiling brightly, Tim eased the door open with his foot. "How're you feeling?"

For once, it felt good to be the one giving soup, not receiving it.


End file.
